Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  “I halfway suspect I’ll have nightmares tonight,” Joseph Späh says.

  The American answers this observation with a grunt. He will have nightmares tonight as well, but they will be about different things. His nightmares will tap into the most basic, primal fear he has: losing control. Behind his closed eyes he will see things falling apart. He will grasp after missed opportunities and misinformation. He will hear whispers in languages he does not know, and he will see faceless shapes slipping around corners and ducking through doors while he is exposed, frozen, unable to follow. His dreams will be all shadow and no substance.

  The American shudders. Clears his mind. Marches behind Joseph Späh with a new determination.

  Finally the small man points to a metal door marked FREIGHT. “She’s in there.”

  At the sound of his voice a high, keening whine comes from the other side, followed by a bark. Then a second, deeper bark.

  The freight room is cold and dark and smells of stale air and dog piss.

  “Shit,” Späh says. “I’m too late. Poor girl is probably scared stupid. Dogs piss on everything when they’re scared.”

  So do men, the American thinks, but he does not say this out loud. He just stands back, watching.

  Späh finds the light switch on the wall and a tepid glow fills the room. The cargo hold isn’t very large. And apart from two dog crates it contains a number of steamer trunks, boxes, and what looks to be a large piece of furniture wrapped in a blanket.

  Ulla sees her master and barks. She spins in a tight circle inside her crate, her tail thrashing against the wicker slats with a thwap, thwap, thwap.

  “Who does that one belong to?” The American points at a second crate that holds a large, shivering mutt. It might be the half-breed bastard of something resembling a greyhound.

  “I don’t know.” The American moves closer but Späh says, “Watch your step.”

  Three streams of urine trickle from a puddle in one corner of the mutt’s crate. Späh gently lifts the latch on Ulla’s crate. She pants. Presses her nose into the gap. Tries to force her way out.

  “No,” Späh says. “Sit.”

  The dog is reluctant and hungry but well trained. She drops her rump to the floor but cannot contain the frenzied thrashing of her tail. He sets the plate at his feet.

  “Stay,” he says.

  The mutt whimpers, eyes locked on the plate of food.

  Joseph Späh pulls the crate door open and steps backward. Ulla stays where she is, though with a great effort. The American can see her training wrestling with her instinct. The muscles in her forelegs spasm with little jerks as she forces herself to obey.

  “Eat.”

  Ulla rushes forward at the command and inhales her dinner. When observed coldly, the act is almost violent. She does not bite or chew but rather consumes with bared teeth and wild gulps. Alsatians are nearly indistinguishable from German shepherds, their temperaments fierce and protective, but Ulla has one great distinction. Instead of the traditional brown and black markings, she is completely white. Albino? he wonders. But no, her eyes are a deep black. In the scant light they look like bits of obsidian, reflecting his curiosity back at him. Joseph Späh has her well in hand, but the American does not doubt for a moment that this animal is intelligent. She is not to be trifled with.

  “Shut up,” Späh says to the mutt in the other cage as it throws itself against the slats, whining.

  “It’s hungry.”

  Späh frowns. “It is not my responsibility.” But there is no hardness in his voice. Rather a faint thread of compassion.

  Ulla licks the plate until it rattles against the floor. There isn’t so much as a breadcrumb or ribbon of fish left when she’s done. The expensive Nazi plate is delicate, with silver edging, and it’s being licked by a dog. The American finds this very apropos, and the sight puts him in an inexplicably good mood.

  As it turns out, Ulla proves to be worth whatever Späh has paid to transport her across the Atlantic. The tricks he has taught her are quite spectacular. She can stand on her hind legs or forelegs at a single command. She can do a back flip and speak her name. Ulla is almost human in the way she anticipates her master’s needs, and the American quite enjoys the show Späh performs on his behalf.

  “Good night, girl,” Späh whispers as he rubs behind her ears and under her chin. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Until now the airship has felt incomplete to the American, as though he has seen only part of a map. But now, having walked the Hindenburg from one end to the other, he feels a greater sense of certainty in his mission. There are still closed doors, places he has not been, things he hasn’t seen, but he will rectify that. He has been on board for a little over five hours, and the shape of the great airship is forming in his mind.

  He bids Späh good night and thanks him for the chance to meet Ulla as they re-enter the passenger area.

  “You should come with me again tomorrow. I think she likes you.”

  Foolish dog, the American thinks.

  Späh claps him on the back. “I’ll come get you in the morning.”

  “Not too early.”

  He peers at the ceiling as though trying to decide the time of day. “Don’t worry, when I get home my days of sleeping in are over. I have three children. They wake up at the most ungodly hour every single day.”

  “Anytime after seven.” He parts ways with Späh, who turns at the stairs to head up toward A-deck, and returns to his room.

  The pistol is still there. He moved it to the bottom of his suitcase when he went to dinner. The American feels the reassuring weight of it in his hands. The cartridge is still loaded. His room has not been entered. He can tell this by the little clues he set in place before leaving: one corner of the pillowcase tucked underneath. The closet door closed but not latched. The sink set to a faint drip. The shirts folded at the top of his suitcase. He takes a deep, satisfied breath and begins to undress for bed. It will take some time to quiet his mind. It will take much longer to fall asleep.

  He has just stretched out on the berth when the door to the next cabin opens. Laughter. A man’s voice, and then a woman’s. Whispers. The door closes with a loud click.

  It is well past midnight now and the airship is eerily quiet. Too quiet for the woman to be speaking as loudly as she does.

  “Do you think he’s right?” she asks.

  “Ssshhhh,” her partner says, and then lower, “About what, Liebchen?”

  “About the bomb.”

  The American sits up straight, every muscle tense, breath held, listening for whatever it is they will say next.

  THE JOURNALIST

  “Ssshhhh.” Leonhard stands behind her, his lips close to her ear. Warm. And his voice is little more than a whisper. “It’s Colonel Erdmann’s job to worry, not yours.”

  “But—”

  “Quiet, Liebchen.”

  “He said—”

  “I know what he said.”

  Gertrud loves Leonhard’s hands. He is bright and educated and easily the funniest man she has ever met, but his hands are not the soft, indolent hands of an academic. They are broad and strong and calloused. They are the hands of a man who has never known a sedentary day. And right now those hands snake around her waist, stroking, massaging until they find the top button of her skirt. He flicks it open with two fingers and the fabric at her waist relaxes. Gertrud is never more aware of how much older Leonhard is than when he touches her. It is startling how much skill he has acquired in those two extra decades.

  “I know what you’re doing,” she says.

  When Leonhard tugs at her skirt it falls a few inches to settle on her hips.

  “I’d say it’s fairly obvious.”

  “You’re trying to distract me.”

  Gertrud’s skirt drops to the floor, and Leonhard moves those nimble, calloused fingers to her blouse. One button. Two. Three. He spreads the collar open, revealing an elegant sweep of clavicle and the pale ivory of her camisole.
Next he shifts his attention to the opening at the back of her slip as he unbuckles her garters from behind.

  “You never did tell me what you were thinking,” he whispers. Leonhard tugs lightly at her earlobe with his teeth.

  It takes a beat too long for Gertrud to find her question. “When?”

  “When you came out of the toilet after dinner. You looked sad and guilty, like you could cry but were too angry. Why?”

  “Egon. I hadn’t thought of him for hours.”

  “Ah. I thought so.” He gently pulls her to him, her back pressing against his chest. Leonhard is warm and solid, and she settles against him. “Egon is at home with your mother, asleep. You should sleep as well.”

  “There’s little chance of that.”

  “Oh?” One of those hands she loves so much drops between them and makes its way under her slip.

  “It isn’t going to work, you know.”

  “No?” The warmth of his palm high on the inside of her thigh. The stroke of one well-placed finger.

  Gertrud clears her throat. “Absolutely not.”

  “We shall see about that.” He nuzzles his nose into the soft spot beneath her left ear. Finds her pulse with the tip of his tongue.

  “That’s not fair.” Her words come out in a rush.

  “The rules of fair play do not apply in love or war.”

  “Don’t you quote John Lyly to me.”

  He does not answer, simply continues his gentle stroking against the soft skin of her throat.

  “Which is this, then?” she asks. “Love or war.”

  “Erotisch.”

  So much for fair play. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh, but I did, Liebchen.” Leonhard finishes unbuttoning her blouse. He slides it off her shoulders and down her arms with warm, long fingers.

  This is how she found herself married to Leonhard in the first place. His single-minded, relentless ability to get what he wants. And for the last few years it appears that Gertrud is the only thing he wants. It started with a glass of wine after an editorial meeting. She hadn’t wanted to go with him that afternoon—he intimidated her with his age and self-assurance—but he just seemed so certain that he wanted to go with her, so she relented. Then dinner a few nights later. It must have been excruciating for Leonhard to wait the appropriate amount of time before he could employ his more persuasive abilities. She has wondered since what he would have done had she rebuffed him before he could put them to good use. Alas, she never got the chance to find out. Leonhard Adelt is not the sort of man to let a prize slip through his fingers.

  And those fingers are quite busy now hiking her slip higher and higher until it rests at the top of her thighs. “Stop thinking of Egon. He’s fine,” he whispers as he hooks his thumbs into the edge of her stockings. Tugs. The sheer silk slides down her legs. Leonhard kicks them toward the growing pile of clothing, then systematically dispatches her garters as well. Leonhard lifts her hands and slides the camisole up and over her head. Unhooks her bra with one hand and drops it to the floor.

  “I’m not thinking about him. Not anymore.”

  “Liar.” He sets his hands on her hips and slides them slowly up the slope of her belly, over her ribs, until he cups a breast in each hand.

  Egon is not quite a year old, and one month ago she was still nursing him twice a day. The process of weaning him was rushed and unwilling and fraught with emotion on both their parts thanks to this trip. And it is only now, as her husband’s strong and gentle hands massage her breasts, that she realizes how heavy they are, filled with a phantom ache.

  “It’s gone,” she whispers, trying to reassure him, as she remembers the awkward pairing of motherhood and lovemaking. There is no polite way to escape the realities of biology when one has a child. Acceptance is the only real course of action. And good humor.

  “It never bothered me, Liebchen. You know that.” His attentions are methodical as he explores all the dips and hollows, the ridges and mounds of her body, with those expert hands. “But I was right, you do need to be distracted. You won’t sleep otherwise.”

  If Leonhard was careful in the removal of her clothing, he is efficient when it comes to his own. In a matter of moments there is no fabric between them. He pushes her gently onto the bed.

  “It won’t work.”

  “You keep saying that,” Leonhard says as he climbs in and hovers over her, “but there is so much you have to learn, Liebchen.” He graces her with a patient smile.

  “You’ve been a thorough teacher so far.”

  “Perhaps…perhaps I shall exhaust you so thoroughly that you will concede my point.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  He laughs. Then growls. Drops his mouth to her skin. Leonhard kisses the hollow where neck and shoulder meet. It takes only seconds for his ministrations to become more sensual.

  Gertrud is not as crafty as her husband, but she’s every bit as provocative and quite a bit faster. “No so fast,” she whispers, pulling away slightly.

  He shudders and his eyes take on a glassy, hungry look that only feeds her determination. He murmurs something desperate against her throat.

  “Not this time, Geliebter,” she whispers. “It’s my turn to teach you a thing or two.”

  THE CABIN BOY

  On his first trip aboard the Hindenburg, Werner Franz negotiated his position on the top bunk with an aplomb far beyond his age. One look at his indomitable cabin mate, Wilhelm Balla, convinced him that the best approach would be one of emotionless logic. So Werner had suggested that it would be easier for him to move in and out of the high, narrow berth due to the fact that he was younger, lighter, and smaller. Balla had looked at the boy and then the ladder that led to the bunk for a prolonged moment, shrugged, and tossed his bag on the lower mattress. They had never spoken of sleeping arrangements again. The truth of the situation, however, was that Werner desperately wanted the top. His reasons were immature, but he was too immature himself to recognize them: being the younger brother, he’d never gotten the top bunk at home, and he was willing to endure any amount of negotiation to make sure he acquired it now.

  Balla isn’t the most interesting cabin mate, but they get along well enough. And they’ve learned not to disturb one another as they come and go at different hours. So when Werner hears the door open, he assumes that Balla is turning in for the night. As cabin boy, Werner’s primary job is to serve the officers, and his schedule accommodates theirs, stretching from early breakfast at six to evening coffee at nine-thirty. Balla tends the passengers and keeps to more traditional hours. Werner is almost asleep again when he realizes that a gentle snoring is coming from the bunk below. Balla is already in bed. Someone else has opened the door.

  “Get up,” a voice says, close to his ear. It is not Balla’s.

  Werner squeezes his eyes shut. He murmurs a feeble objection and pulls the heavy knit blanket over his head.

  The blanket is stripped away. “If I have to turn on the light it will wake Balla and you’ll likely get a beating from both of us. Up now. You have work to do.”

  It’s well past midnight. Werner feels certain of this. He was in bed by eleven p.m. and has been sleeping soundly for some time. He runs through a quick mental checklist to ensure that he has done everything required of him this evening: he has served dinner to the officers, scrubbed down their dining area, and cleaned and put away the dishes; he has taken coffee to the control car for those working the night shift; he has made sure all of the officers’ beds are made and their cabins tidy. His clothes are pressed and laid out for the next day. He has not missed anything. He never does.

  “I will yank your scrawny carcass from this bed if you’re not on the floor in three seconds.” The voice is stern and all the more intimidating for its lack of volume.

  Werner has an older brother and has long since learned to take such threats seriously. He’s on the floor, hand gripping the ladder for balance, before he has even made the conscious decisio
n to do so. There is a sharp twinge in his bruised knee and he winces at the pain.

  It takes several seconds for him to recognize the severe face of Heinrich Kubis. The chief steward is standing with his back to the door, his face cast in deep, angled shadows, and he is holding a large basket of shoes in the crook of his arm. His short black mustache looks like a grim slash in the half-light, a mark of displeasure. Werner says the only words he can gather at this moment. “I don’t understand.”

  “Come with me.”

  The boy looks at his faded flannel pajamas. “But—”

  “No need to get dressed.”

  Werner grabs his pocket watch from the dressing table, then gently pulls the door shut and follows Kubis down the corridor. He is barefoot and rumpled and half-asleep, and the watch hangs heavy in his pocket. “Where are we going?”

  Kubis turns the corner and stops before the gangway stairs. He tips his head to the side, thinks for a moment, and sets the basket down on the third step. “Here.”

  The cabin boy pretends to understand. He doesn’t ask any questions, but rather looks at Kubis expectantly, as though awaiting instructions. Silence, when coming from a child, is usually interpreted by adults as understanding. Or, at worst, fear. It is a trick he has used every day since coming to work aboard the Hindenburg. He watches and listens and inevitably gets the answers he’s looking for without ever having to ask.

  Kubis points at the basket. “There’s a brush and a rag and a tin of wax at the bottom. You will shine those shoes and you will do a damn good job. Understand?”

  The boy doesn’t trust his voice enough to say more than the minimum. “Yes.”

  Werner has worked on board the Hindenburg for seven months and never once has he been asked to perform this task. When Heinrich Kubis hired him last year this was not listed among his job duties. And yet here he is, pulled from a sound sleep and given the chief steward’s work to do. If he were a man he would punch Kubis right in his knobby Adam’s apple. But he’s little more than a boy, so he blinks back tears instead.

  Kubis is gone without so much as a word of further instruction. Not that Werner needs it, of course. He has been shining shoes for his father since he was three years old. He looks at the basket. It is brimming—probably ten pairs—and he slumps to the carpeted steps, defeated. His feet are cold, and, the longer he sits there, so is his rear end. The Franz men are not known for having a well-padded posterior, and he is no exception.